Day had now dawned, the Indian boy was gently sleeping, and Earth and his mother were bearing him slowly along, when she announced that her wigwam was at hand. Rolfe, buoyed with hope, eagerly moved forward. A few moments passed, and a small cabin was seen in the forest. Rolfe darted forward,—“it is not mine,” said the mother. He stopped, dispirited, and dejected. A few moments more elapsed, and another appeared,—“it is mine,” said the mother. Again Rolfe bounded forward, reached the cabin, and entered.
Earth and the Indian mother also hurried on, and having reached her lodge, they gently deposited the litter,—the mother, that she might make preparations for the reception of her son,—and Earth, that he might gaze on her who was the object of his search. Having entered her wigwam, what a startling vision met his sight! Stretched on a rude frame, over which were spread a few skins, lay a female figure, but partly covered, and over it, with eyes fixed in horror, bent Rolfe. The figure was youthful and delicate, and her hair, which was damp and cold, having fallen somewhat over her face, veiled her features; but she was pulseless, lifeless; and the cold dews of death had already settled upon her! and yet, no word escaped Rolfe. Still he gazed in the fixedness of horror. Earth, equally incapable of acting, likewise remained a silent spectator, until the mother entering, approached, and removing the hair from the face of the maiden, saw that her eyes were set, and glazed, and cried, “she is gone, she sleeps, and will wake no more.”
At this annunciation, Earth turned away, with tears streaming down his face, while Rolfe, as if waked into life, bent nearer, gazed more intently, and cried, “it is not she.”
The best tidings could not have given Earth more comfort; he approached, and waited with fearful anxiety, a farther examination of her features.—“No,” said Rolfe, “it is not she whom we seek;” and turning away, he also found relief in tears.
Earth seemed happy that things were no worse, and but little time was now allowed for sympathy with the dead; for the mother approached, and told Earth, that the frame on which the maiden lay, she wished to spread with skins, for her son, and added, “to the ‘Drooping Flower’ it is now a matter of little moment, whether she lies high or low.” So thought Earth, for wrapping the delicate figure in the skins which partly covered it, he placed it on the floor, in a corner of the cabin, saying, “mother, let it remain here, until we shall determine what to do with it.”
“While I prepare a bed, wilt thou make a fire?” said the mother. It was soon done, and Earth and the mother, bearing along the Indian boy, placed him on the rude couch prepared for his reception. While these little arrangements were making, Rolfe, overpowered by disappointment, and the rush of feelings which crowded upon his mind, had left the lodge, and afterward Earth having joined him, they withdrew to a short distance.
“Earth, what thinkest thou of the scene we have just witnessed?”
“Indeed, I know not what to think. I am glad, however, she was not the maiden we seek.”
“I scarcely know whether I am or not,” said Rolfe, “if she had been the same, her sufferings would now have been ended, and I should have performed the last sad office she could have required from man. As it is, I shall no more see her, and if she has not already writhed at the stake, pain and suffering, and a broken heart will be her fate.”
“It is sad,” said Earth, “think of it as you will; all hope for the present is gone, and when we leave here, my advice is that we make for the settlements, and by mingling with men, try and forget the past.”